Bewitched
by Helle Bright
Summary: Is it a privilege to be a cousin to a mighty queen, gentle and generous, although a bit whimsical? Or a best buddy to an equally whimsical heir? Having the romantic art of the Troubadours, countless servants, and a little magic potion could certainly help


Title: Witchcraft Author: Helene e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru Rating: PG13 Teaser: Is it a privilege to be a cousin to a mighty queen, gentle and generous, although a bit whimsical? Or a best buddy to an equally whimsical heir? Having the romantic art of the Troubadours, countless servants, and a little magic potion could certainly help, but what if use of magic is deemed sinful? Timeline: Alternative reality Disclaimer: Alas, I can't even claim having had an enchanted affair like the ones of Tristan and Iseult, Abelard and Heloise, or Serena and Darien. I certainly don't claim owning any of the aforesaid stories, although the one that you're about to read is all mine. AN: I've been fostering this plot for about six months, which makes it my fondest project yet. Please PLEASE tell me if the result is worth it.  
  
Chapter I  
  
"And then," enunciated a soft soprano, clearly belonging to a young noblewoman, "the valorous Tristan bestowed on the tender Iseult a flawless kiss of the flawless love. Good night, and may God bless thee, child." "Cousin Eleanor!" entreated an exuberant voice. "Please wait." "It is time thou should rest, Serene." The adult's tone was gentle, but firm. "Please," begged the girl with a tiny whine, "tell me how they lived happily ever after." "It is time thou should rest."  
  
The next sounds to be heard in the barely illuminated bedroom were a rustling of skirts, a squeak of the rusty door hinges, and a disappointed sigh.  
  
"I do know that they lived happily ever after. All stories end the same way. Tristan and Iseult, cousin Eleanor and cousin Louis, Mom and Dad, all of them still live happily, and very much in love. But why wouldn't she tell me?"  
  
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"I didn't have the heart to tell her. My God, I would wish to have no heart at all!" "Fair Elearnor, why would thou wish away the care and compassion thou hold for us all?" queried a soothing baritone. "I can no longer bear not being able to change anything! Am I not the Queen of France? Is not my royal spouse to heed my words?" "Calm, niece, this impatience does not beseem one such as thee." "Calm!" No longer soft, the soprano came out more like a furious shriek. "You will me to be calm when Louis no longer gives me ear, content to be led along by his precious Saint Bernard! You will ME to be calm when it is YOUR princedom that is threatened by the Saracens, and my own husband refuses to grant protection to my kin! Oh how I wish I had no heart!" "Antioch can fare against the infidels. It shall not repeat the dark fate of Edessa." "Edessa had also been said to be sturdy, Raymond, but it still fell! Antioch will be the next if I fail to sway Louis." "Niece, I pray thee to be calm. I need your help preparing Serene. We do not wish her to experience the siege, do we?" "I know." "Thank God." "I know what I should do. I shall demand a divorce." "Please, I beg thee, do not make a rash choice. At least not until Serene is safely away."  
  
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Not even the Southern sunbeams, streaming through the window slits opposite the bed, could do much to brighten the room. The drab stone walls refused to be tinged with pink, or smeared with yellow, and the colorful tapestries, designated to be thus effected, had been put away with the gilded bibelots and sparse dresses. The wooden floor was no longer covered with a carpet, and most of the pillows were also missing.  
  
But then, it did not matter. It was not her room anymore. It was not her home anymore. She was being sent to a ghastly convent in cold and unwelcoming France. She had been promised, of course, that she would have the best teacher ever, the abbess of Paraclete, and that France, being the motherland of her dear father and beloved cousin Eleanor, was the nicest place. However, there were two arguments they had failed to counter. Firstly, she was not about to become a perfect little scholar, and, secondly, she knew that Raymond of Poitiers, for all his French titles and domains, preferred their darling Antioch.  
  
Warm, sunny Antioch. Was she to bid her final farewell to her home of twelve years? Was she forsaking it when it needed her most? Was she a traitress?  
  
"Serene, darling," called out her Mother, effectively interruption her musings, "it is time." "Must I?" "It has been decided."  
  
A few moments later she was enveloped in a consoling hug, desperately breathing in the familiar fragrance.  
  
"I don't want to go," she whimpered. "You have to. Come say your goodbyes to your father and cousin Eleanor." "Will cousin Louis be there?" "No. Cousin Eleanor is displeased with him." "I thought they love each other so much that he couldn't bear to separate from her." "Their controversy is of no concern to us. Come."  
  
Casting one last glance at her old room, Serene followed her mother down the winding corridors and staircases of the castle. She would have trudged instead of trotting, but she was loath to arouse displeasure on her last day. Her last.  
  
The girl felt moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes, and started blinking rapidly, attempting to prevent the drops from spilling over. That caused her to loose her concentration and miss a step. Swaying dangerously on the edge of a stair, she flailed her arms to avoid tumbling down and barreling into the slender form before her. Luckily, the form turned to catch her, intercepting the fall.  
  
"Serene, daughter, I'm going to miss you so much." "Me too, Mother."  
  
Serene had her arms locked rigidly around her mother's waist, and the tears gushed onto her cheeks.  
  
"I'd rather remain the princess of Antioch than become the Countess of Poitiers." "Me too, Daughter."  
  
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"Sister Heloise, thou art ranked supreme in the extent of thy learning among the women of this blessed kingdom, and thy wise administration in the convent of Argenteuil is of great renown. Therefore my noble Cousin, Count Raymond of Poitiers, the prince of Antioch, deems it sapient to trust thee with the custody of his eldest daughter, Countess Serene of Poitiers, until such times when either he or myself will be able to take her in our care. The maid is twelve years of age, uncouth, though eager, and not at all schooled in anything except reading and writing. We believe that she may benefit greatly from thy benign tutoring. Signed: Eleanor of France."  
  
Sister Heloise let out a deep breath, absently crumpling the letter with the royal seal of France.  
  
"Daughter of Raymond, granddaughter of duke William, the great Troubadour, whose songs of love have so stirred my soul and affected my life. Will she share his ardent spirit?" she mused, ignoring her audience of one, an exhausted forerunner, who was still attempting to regain his breath. "Will she wreak as much havoc?" "That. That she sure will, sister," panted the man, sounding suddenly youthful and innocent. "But not until she's properly taken her ease she won't. The traveling ain't agreeing with her." "When is she due to arrive?" "I left the train ten miles before Troyes, so it must be nearing the town." "The train?" she echoed absently, still lost with longing for the past long gone. "What train?" "The train, Sister." The forerunner was growing exasperated. "You don't think the queen's cousin would travel without a train? How else can she bring her furniture? And her clothing? What about her ladies in waiting?" "Queen's niece or not, the child is not going to need any of those while she is in my safekeeping. Take thee to Troyes, boy, intercept the train, and send everything away. The ladies too. This humble habitation is too small to house more than are in need." "But Sister." "Away with thee." "Aye."  
  
The following couple of hours found the abbess of Paraclete hastily readying a chamber for the young princess. Half the peltry from her own cell was carried over to the neighboring one. The nights were drawing out as the winter drew on, and the Southern child would get ill from stepping onto the cold floor.  
  
Then the short wooden bed had to be made. New curtains were produced from the storeroom, the straw mattress fetched from the closest village, and the mat, regular linens, several large straw pillows, a colorful coverlet and a couple of goatskin were contributed by the charitable nuns. The tapestries would have to be procured from Troyes later on, but, by the time she was finished, Heloise was too tired to fret over the feelings of the outlandish princess about the lack of wall hangings. Now if she only could get somebody to move the table and the bench. At forty-four, the abbess found it overly straining to drag heavy items.  
  
"The carriage is approaching, Mother." "I'm coming right down, Sister Aenor."  
  
Serene of Poitiers was approaching. The ward she never agreed to foster, the child she never had. That they never had.  
  
Clop of hoots and clatter of wheels from the yard spurred the Mother into an undignified run, and after a breathless minute she was already peering inside the coach. Nestled in the numerous cushions, a tiny figure was lying on the front facing seat. The girl's face was hidden from sight by waves of pale hair, cascading messily to the coach bottom. With her arms crossed over her chest and her legs bent close to her stomach, the little one appeared entirely too frail, immediately inspiring a surge of protective tenderness in the abbess's heart.  
  
"So that's what motherhood is all about," she gathered, extending a careful hand to move away the mussed tresses to be greeted with an abashed azure gaze.  
  
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Oh, how wonderful, how utterly delightful it is to be sixteen, when the morn awakens you to vibrant dreams, and the day offers teasing glimpses of the freedom to come, and the night filled by chasing the boldest hopes; to eagerly await the future to finally whisk you far far away to the undiscovered countries and daring adventures. Any experience serves to magnify the yearning to learn more and more, and no teacher can allay your craving for knowledge, and each and every fancy makes your chest swell with myriad tingly bubbles that seem to raise you above the earth to float amid the carefree clouds. At those magical moments there is not a thing or a creature in the whole universe to daunt you, and you're speeding through the flowering field towards home, forgetting to breathe because something has happened, something of great significance.  
  
Mother Heloise never summoned anybody with such urgency, the panting sister Aenor had entreated, and Serene hotfooted it to the convent without even collecting her scant arrows from where they had ended up during target practice. A summoning of the hitherto unknown urgency could only mean that it was time for her to leave because somebody had come to deliver her to either her aunt Eleanor or her family. It could only mean she would finally be able to follow one of the beckoning paths of knightly deeds, forgotten mysteries, and forbidden affairs her lay books rendered.  
  
That thought spurred the girl on, and she flew forwards, clutching the skirt of her dove-colored robes lest they should hinder her movements. Her hood had long since fallen off, and the flaxen mass of her hair was flapping wildly about her nimble form, tangling around her neck. Flushed and out of breath, Serene darted through the open gate onto the fenced convent yard. After a brief stop to attempt calming her pulse and scan the enclosure for unfamiliar horses, she headed straight to the prayer chapel, which was always used for solemn talks. Her foster mother would undoubtedly be found inside the lofty edifice, illuminated only by several narrow windows of stained glass and a handful of candles.  
  
"Mother?" "Serene."  
  
Heloise could not help sighing, which her young apprentice had clearly interpreted as a reproach, if her widened orbs and quivering lips were anything to judge by. The abbess wished that it were the case, that she were called upon to rebuke, or even punish. Anything would have been better than the task at hand.  
  
"Sit down, child. Sit down and listen, for I bear dismal news. A great calamity has befallen thy family." "Calamity? What." "Sit down and listen, Serene, I beseech thee, and do not speak until I'm done." "Aye, Mother." "Antioch was seized by Saracens."  
  
Antioch seized. All of a sudden, a needle-sharp ache shot through her very core, forcing her to gasp for air. Her eyes stung, and she felt sick and dizzy. Her beloved Antioch. Her princedom. How?  
  
"How?" "The weaponry was not enough, and the people were drained by the siege." "But what about cousin Louis and his army? They were to aid Father, were they not?" "Louis had been dissuaded from rendering assistance to Count Raymond. The Queen was helpless against the arguments of the king's advisors." "Poor Mother," sobbed Serene, covering her face with her hands. "At least Father has Poitiers, but she never knew another home. I can understand better than anyone else who awful it is to leave everything you knew as a child behind." "Serene, your parents shall not be living in Poitiers," "Surely you do not mean to tell me that Father shall stay beside cousin Louis after what had taken place between them." "He shan't."  
  
At the grim note in the elder woman's voice, Serene's head jerked upwards, her dainty palms resting against each other in front of her chest as if posed for prayer. Oh, Lord, let it be a horrible mistake, she pled with a tearful gaze at the chapel rosette, which was the closest thing to the heavens.  
  
"Brace thyself, for thy parents departed, daughter," told the nun, reaching to cup the face of her ward. "They had failed to escape, not wishing to abandon their people."  
  
Departed. Escape. Abandon.  
  
Abandon.  
  
"They did not wish to abandon the people of Antioch, yet it is I who is abandoned," said Serene, quietly slipping from the wooden bench to fall in a heap on the cold bricks. "Why?" she cried out, unable to contain her anguish any longer. "I asked myself the very question so many times," breathed Heloise, sitting down next to the desolate girl, "but my only answer was my grief. Come, let me take you to your cell." "My cell? I don't want to go there. I don't even wish to live if I don't ever see them again." "Listen to me, Serene. Your parents wanted you to live. That is why they had sent you away four years ago. Do not wrong their memory by spurning their will. Come."  
  
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"It's been a week since she last talked outside the chapel." "I know, sister Aenor." "She barely eats. She hasn't even broken her fast in the morning." "She is grieving. It is but natural." "But Mother, she is going to fall ill if she doesn't stop!" "What do you propose, gentle Sister?" "Speak to her, Mother, I pray thee." "Do you believe she may listen?" "She might."  
  
It had not been of her own volition that Heloise had donned her veil and embraced her duties all those years ago, but that did not imply she used to slacken back then, nor that she would now. Duty to her uncle, her husband, the sisters and her foster daughter, to her it did not matter who was on the receiving end as long as it depended on her to make do, for such was the nature of the responsibility of all God's creatures to Him and for each other. Duties were to be performed, which was why, instead of directing her course towards the refectory, the Mother started off to the living quarters.  
  
Having decided it best to use the element of surprise and not to alert her ward to the impeding conversation, Heloise swung open the door and strode to the bed, where a Serene's small frame was huddled on top of the coverlet.  
  
"Look at me," she administered firmly. "I do not wish to see anyone." "But I wish to see you. Why do you keep refusing my comfort, Serene?" "I want my Mother!" The reply was punctuated with a pitiful sniffle that would have melted the sternest of hearts. "Serene, I know how you must be feeling, but." "You can't! Not unless you had spent four years separated from your parents only to learn that they died!" "Well, then, you're right. I cannot know how you are feeling, for I have never known my parents." "I am sorry." "So am I. But you need to understand that life does go on, that you, yourself, need to go on, if only out of your duty to God." "You say that to everybody that seek solace in this place." "I was said that by the wisest person in this whole country." "Who is it?" "Was. Will you listen?"  
  
Would she listen? The wound was still raw, her soul felt lost and empty, and a hortatory tale could not possibly heal them, but there had a kind promise in the words of her teacher, and she did not have the heart to deny her.  
  
"I shall." "Then fix your appearance, and come with me to the refectory. I fear that I have developed a stomach for the afternoon meal."  
  
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"My eighteen's anniversary of birth was approaching," commenced the abbess, setting aside the empty bowl, "and the canon Fulbert, my uncle, who had been taking care of me since the Angel of Death had reaped my parents, arranged for me to be tutored by the brightest student of liberal arts in Paris, the head of the cathedral school at Notre Dame. I feared the meeting, for he was the sum and substance of everything I revered, and, for all my scholarly endeavors, I was but a lacking wench. Yet my fears were allayed with his very first words, assured yet soothing.  
  
Soon I learned that he never found me lacking. It was after he had arranged to take lodging in uncle's house, and, joined by our shared passion rather than our studies, we committed our every waking moment to love.  
  
Then the inevitable happened. Alas, we were discovered by my uncle, who demanded that Peter take me as his wife before God, and, when I realized that I was with child, Peter gave in to the demand. The wedding, however, could not occur until I was delivered, and I was sent to dwell with my lover's aunt, where my child was born still. I never even saw the babe.  
  
Peter and I were wed in secret a short time later, despite my many objections. My babe was in heaven, and my lover's lifework did not permit keeping a wife. My uncle's ire was not to be assuaged, for his love for me demanded a proper wedding. And as for me, my duty to Peter was leaving him unencumbered to pursue his goals, not weigh him down. But I was forced to betray my principles, and relinquish my freedom.  
  
Uncle was furious, going as far as hiring mercenaries to attack my love at night. The consequences of the attack were such that our married life could no longer continue. Desolate, I was almost dead to the world, but Peter had enough strength for the both of us to go on, entering the monastery of St. Denis and commanding that I do the same at Argenteuil.  
  
I did as he bid, though failing to reconcile myself with the decision. I never saw Peter again, but when I feel weary and downhearted, I remember his courage and determination, and, even though I shall never accomplish as much as he did, there is always reason to strive on."  
  
Serene's face was once again moist with tears, but, somehow, Heloise knew, that those tears were shed on her behalf. Those were cleansing tears of compassion towards the living, not mournful tears of despair. Those tears proved a blessed sign of springing life, a life that would not be wasted.  
  
The life of Serene of Antioch, Countess of Poitiers. 


End file.
